“I know.” The other Tony had the same car. The same color from the interior to the detailed paint job. The only different was that it had probably been rebuilt twenty more times than this one had – since it was practically brand new. But as automobile technology advanced in her time, he had excuse after excuse to take it apart and put it together again – the outcome always different and better functionally. And while it was a beautiful car, and she loved just about anything made by Italian hands, she was an American girl, and preferred an American built car. Her heart was aching a little to see the Shelby missing from his collection. Being 1964, she wouldn’t be debuted until the next year, and she assumed that was why her own Shelby hadn’t been parked in front of her apartment, replaced by an acceptable first gen Barracuda.
It was situations like this that seemed to make her more comfortable with him. Trying not to frown as she watched him drink, ignoring what she knew about the future and accepting it as the norm of the time, the pile up of personality flaws in front of her continued to reassure her that this was, in fact, Tony Stark. She was willing to bet that many of the cars in the garage were bought just because they could be, as opposed to being wanted. Limited editions, first off the line, show pieces. All attained because he could. Hard and fast traits of Tony Stark. He may have looked at her differently, or addressed her differently, but he was definitely some version of Tony.
After considering his question in silence, she finally shrugged, looking over the Ferrari, frowning at the greasy prints left behind from his recent work. “I suppose.” She wasn’t sure when she last ate, she was hungry, but not starving, and she hoped he hadn’t expected her to cook. Misty hardly did that for herself, and she doubted that there was anything edible in his underused kitchen. “What sort of dinner were you thinking about?”